The Price We Pay
by hollow echos
Summary: Eliot's taken a lot of abuse this season. Crowbars, being thrown into a river, it never seems to stop. And he just keeps on trucking through the pain. Hardison takes notice of the abuse he's suffered and tries to help our hitter. Pairing: Eliot/Hardison
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Price We Pay  
**Genre: ** Angst, hurt/comfort  
**Word Count:** ~14,500  
**Rating:** PG-13 (language)  
**Pairings:** Eliot/Hardison  
**Warnings: **None  
**Summary:** Eliot has always been a man that believed in duty and honor before all else. And that includes his duty to the rest of his teammates to make sure that they come home safe after each and every con. He doesn't ask for recognition or anything really, not even for the time he needs to recover after a flurry of hard cons. The wear and tear is starting to show and Hardison takes notice.

**Author's Note:** A huge shout out to my beta, Rusting Roses, for making this fic that much better. This fic was written for the help_Pakistan auction. The winning bidder asked for a fic that dealt with the abuses Eliot's suffered this season and how the team has generally ignored the sacrifices he makes for them. This is what I came up with as a response.

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**The Price We Pay**

"Hardison, what do you want to drink?" Nate asked from behind the bar where he stood facing the liquor cabinet.

Hardison raised his half-filled glass and smirked. "Already helped myself."

Nate shrugged, unconcerned that Hardison had gone rifling through his alcohol. "Parker? How about you?"

"Grab me a beer. None of that light stuff, though. It tastes like water."

Nate complied, sliding the bottle down along the polished bar top to where she sat perched on one of the stools.

"Heathens, all of you, I swear," Sophie added snidely. "Someday I'll culture you all and show you the true value of a vintage British wine."

Nate chuckled as he raised his own glass to his lips. "Hate to break it to you, dear, but the Brits lost this country a long time ago and they took their subpar alcohol with them. Americans stepped up to the plate and finally got the opportunity to brew some real drinks."

"This coming from the former alcoholic who would drink anything you put in front of him?" she asked.

He nodded, "You bet. I've been around the block a few times; you better believe I know my way around a bar. Eliot, how 'bout you? You want anything?"

Eliot looked up from where he was hunched over toward the end of the bar. It was at least a bit quieter there. "I got my own already."

Nate raised an eyebrow. "That's water."

"Yeah? So?" Eliot remarked coolly.

Hardison chuckled. "Look man, I know you take that whole 'body as a temple' thing seriously but can't you loosen up enough to celebrate another successful con? The coal mine is in a lot better hands and might actually get some safety measures put in place. Not to mention we brought down a corrupt attorney general. It doesn't get much better than that."

Eliot shrugged. "I'm good. I was about to call it a night anyways. Just gonna run upstairs real quick to grab my coat."

"Suit yourself," Nate responded as he leaned up against the bar.

Hardison narrowed his gaze as their hitter wearily rose from his stool and plodded over to the stairs that would take him up to the second floor. Despite the cacophony of his chatting teammates, Hardison didn't miss the sound of Eliot stumbling on the stairs once before righting himself and continuing on. That registered as strange to him. Eliot was many things, but clumsy wasn't one of them. On that thought Hardison pushed his glass aside and stood up. "I think I might actually head in too, guys. Guess you'll have to drink for the two of us."

There was murmur of 'good night' from Nate and Sophie and a 'don't steal my cookies from the kitchen' from Parker. He smirked at that and went in pursuit of Eliot.

A quick trip up the stairs found him in the lounge of Nate's apartment. With no immediate indication of Eliot's presence in the room, he advanced toward the kitchen. Peaking in, he saw Eliot rummaging through a few of the drawers. He'd open one, rifle through it, shake his head, and slam it a bit harder than necessary.

"I don't think this is what you're looking for, but Parker said not to take her cookies," Hardison said, breaking the silence.

"I'm looking for the damn phone book. I know Nate has at least three of them around here and I can't seem to locate any of them," Eliot growled. He paused for a moment, breathing hard and closing his eyes for the briefest of moments before he resumed his search.

"Who do you need to call?"

"A taxi. I'm going home," Eliot responded.

"What about your car?"

"It's stalled out," Eliot responded quickly.

"Since when? It worked fine for me-"

That brought Eliot's movements to a halt. He wrapped his hand a bit harder around the handle of the butcher knife he'd drawn out of the drawer in his search. He spoke the next few sentences in a carefully level voice that betrayed not one hint of emotion, but rather conveyed an icy, dangerous mood. "You drove my truck." He didn't phrase it as a question.

Hardison fumbled as he tried to ward off the accusation. "Look man, you parked me in from the back and Nate had me from the side. I just needed to run to the grocery store for some more orange soda. It's like two blocks and-"

"Hardison! I swear, if there's one scratch on that thing you're a dead man," Eliot snarled.

Hardison gulped, his eyes wide. He let out a relieved sigh as Eliot returned his knife to the drawer. But his brow furrowed as Eliot began to sway to the side a bit, before stabilizing himself against the counter top. "You ok, Eliot?"

"I just need to go home. Get some sleep maybe."

"Which gets us back to your car situation. Why don't you want to drive?"

Eliot remained silent for a minute or two, staring blankly at the counter top and the wall, anywhere besides Hardison, really. He spoke quietly, muttering, "I took some Vicodin. I shouldn't drive."

Hardison realized, then, why Eliot hadn't been drinking. Alcohol and drugs didn't mix at all. He didn't keep the anger from bleeding into his voice as he spoke next. Eliot wasn't the only one who could display a temper when provoked. "You're hurt enough to be taking a strong pain killer and you didn't think to mention it to any of us? We're down there getting drunk and you're sitting there with untreated injuries?"

"I have it under control."

"Yeah, that's clearly the case," Hardison snapped back, surveying his friend's bent frame and pallid complexion.

"Look, can you chew me out tomorrow? I'm not in the mood for this right now." Eliot ran a shaky hand through his hair and then opened another drawer. "Where the hell did Nate put that phone book?"

Hardison slid an arm into the sleeve of his own jacket, prompting Eliot to look at him. "What're you doing?"

"Driving you home. Let's go. Where are your keys?"

Eliot grumbled under his breath. "Didn't I just get done telling you _not_ to drive my truck?"

"Yeah, about the same time I was telling you how terrible you looked and how stupid you're being. Look, I'm taking your truck; you're still blocking me in. You can be in the passenger seat or can stand here gaping like an idiot." And with that said he turned and headed for the exit, grabbing the keys off the counter as he went. He didn't wait to see if Eliot followed or not.

Eliot stood there in the kitchen alone. The ache in his shoulder hadn't lessened at all and all of his senses had been dulled by the drugs. The sharp contrast of the world had been replaced by a fuzzier picture for the time being and every few minutes the room seemed to rock a bit. Maybe it would be better to travel with someone he trusted in this state. He shook his head and stumbled out after his teammate, focusing on getting one foot in front of the other and not landing on his face as he went.

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	2. Chapter 2

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**The Price We Pay**

**Chapter 2**

Hardison trailed behind Eliot just a few steps as they entered the hitter's apartment. He could tell Eliot wanted some space. The man had growled when Hardison had told him he'd at least see him inside. When Eliot had paused to rub at a spot on his left leg on the stairs, he'd thrown a sideways glance at Hardison, as if to gauge his reaction. Hardison had kept his face purposefully neutral despite the fact that he was boiling over inside as he began to understand the depth to which Eliot had been injured without raising so much as a word about it to the rest of them.

Eliot turned to face him once he'd shut his door. "Well? I made it in alive. No one jumped me on the way in or anything. So I suppose you can go home."

Hardison didn't shrink back from the hitter's irritated barb. "Where are you hurt?"

"It's nothing you need to be worried about. Hell, half the time it's me patching you and the rest of the team up. Trained in advanced first aid, remember?" he said, pointing to himself.

Hardison crossed his arms. "Right. And the first rule of medical care is what, keep an injury to yourself? Or, wait, was it inform someone else so they know that something's up?"

Eliot didn't really have a response to that. In truth, there wasn't a rational defense he could muster against plain logic. So he steered the conversation in another direction instead. He pushed a lock of hair out of his face, one that had escaped his disheveled ponytail, and spoke. "If you want to play badger the injured party, fine. I'm going to take a shower before we go another bout. I'm tired and I'm dirty."

Hardison nodded. Eliot returned the gesture with a lazy dip of his own chin and retreated to his bedroom.

Hardison took his sudden solitude as a chance to inspect the apartment and see if he could get a better feel for what was happening here. Something was off. His most pressing concern was whether he could chalk Eliot's condition and irregular behavior up to the latest mission or maybe something more was going on than met the eye.

Hardison was used to seeing military precision when he walked into Eliot's domain. The books always stood at ninety degree angles to their shelves between two tightly pressed book ends. They would be arranged in alphabetical order too. Eliot's obsession with order knew no bounds when left unchecked.

At the current moment Eliot's apartment wasn't messy by any means, but it wasn't up to its normally clinical neatness either. One of Eliot's leather jackets was tossed over the back of the couch and there were a few martial arts DVD's strewn across the coffee table.

He took all this in as he made his circuit through the place. He paused as his wanderings led him into the kitchen. There was an open medical case on the kitchen table. This wasn't the small kit you'd buy at Wal-Mart. No, it looked identical to the ones that Eliot had stashed under the bar and in the back of whatever car they happen to commandeer for a con in case things went south and it was needed. It was the kind of kit that would look more at home in the back of an ambulance than in an apartment for home use. Some of the case's contents were scattered across the table: a few gauze squares, a tube of antibiotic ointment with the cap screwed on at an odd angle, and a pair of ace wraps were among the items spread out at random. He picked up a bottle of pills. Rattling it found it to be half empty. Hardison took a moment to read the label. He frowned at that. Vicodin. But one more item made his muscles tense. There was a needle tinted red with dried blood and a spool of that dissolving thread that you'd use for stitches.

All of this, put together, suggested that Eliot had taken on more abuse in the last few missions than he'd led on. No, Eliot had acted the part perfectly; putting them off the scent with his standard caustic comments. He'd make a snappy remark and withdraw as soon as he could manage to pry himself loose of their company. Hardison had written off as Eliot wanting some time alone. To rest, maybe, or to mediate or do whatever it was that he preferred when the team dissolved to their respective homes for a time after a con. But he'd never thought that Eliot needed the time to stitch himself back together, dull the pain, and get ready to do it all again.

He set the pills back on the table, careful to put them in the same spot he'd picked them up from, before moving over to survey the trashcan. It was about halfway full, another indication that something was off. Eliot took the trash out all the time at Nate's place, even. And here was his own filled with discarded bandages and take-out food containers. Had they really been working that much? Had Eliot really been that preoccupied with their cons that he had to set aside his love of cooking and settle for fast food?

Hardison bit his lip, slowly shaking his head. He retraced his steps back to the bedroom, pausing to knock on the partially-opened door. "Eliot? You in there, man? I'm gonna take out your trash. Where's your dumpster?"

The soft noise of water running in the background suggested that Eliot was still in the shower. Part of Hardison's mind willed him to press his fingertips lightly against the door, swinging it open just a few more inches would leave a gap large enough to let him slip into the room unnoticed for a quick look around. The bedroom was the one part of Eliot's quarters that he'd never seen. The man had always made it a point to keep the door shut.

But ultimately, Hardison shook his head, rejecting the notion. He wouldn't invade the last vestige of his friend's privacy. All he could make out through the gap was a blank white wall and a closed closet door. The dresser right next to the door had an alarm clock on it, though. He observed that the clock was set for an alarm to ring. He reached a hand inside the door just enough to swipe the clock off the dresser top without disrupting the door's partially-open position. Damn. The clock was set to wake Eliot up at 5AM. He respected the man's iron-clad discipline, but sometimes the body needed rest. And having seen the condition Eliot was in already, three hours of sleep wasn't going to cut it. He switched the alarm off, replaced the clock on its perch, and withdrew from his spot outside Eliot's room before his curiosity got the better of him and forced him to take the two steps forward into Eliot's private quarters, something he knew he'd regret.

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	3. Chapter 3

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**The Price We Pay**

**Chapter 3**

Hardison turned his head to the doorway as he heard the soft sound of bare feet against the tiled floor. Eliot paused in the door frame. He had obviously just emerged from the shower. His normally buoyant hair was plastered flat against his head with the weight of the water it carried even after being subjected to a preliminary towel drying. The hitter wore a pair of black sweats that rode low across his hips. The brilliant kitchen lights played shadows and highlights across the contours of the man's muscular frame.

"I thought you were leaving?" Eliot said. His voice was level, but his wide eyes betrayed his surprise at seeing Hardison. Hardison observed that his fist tightened around the white undershirt he had gripped in one hand.

"I was taking your trash out," he replied as his eyes scanned Eliot's bared torso. The muscles were interrupted by bold strips of bruising. He could see a line of freshly healed stitches right above the hitter's left hip. All that marked the old wound now was a railroad track of pink scarring. "Damn, Eliot. What happened to you? You look like you've gotten into a fight with someone's starved guard dog recently- and lost."

Eliot snorted. "More like several fights with angry thugs over the course of the last few cons."

Hardison's gaze met Eliot's eyes at that remark. How could Eliot be so cavalier about this? At least Eliot reacted to the look of horror that Hardison shot him as the hitter finished that statement. Eliot didn't meet him with the usual confident, cocky gaze he favored. No, he looked almost angry at himself and his eyes darted to the floor. Maybe the pain killers had made him a little looser with his words than he had anticipated.

"You didn't say anything," Hardison said in a wounded tone.

"There wasn't anything to say," Eliot replied, dismissing Hardison's expression of concern. "But as long as you're here I might as well put you to work. Could you grab the first aid kit? I can't get the cut on my back dressed on my own." Eliot said as he flipped a chair around backwards and straddled it next to the kitchen table.

As Eliot turned away to sit down Hardison bit his lip as he surveyed the man's back. Bruising ran rampant along his skin, painting it a motley assortment of colors. The cut that Eliot must be referring to stood out in stark contrast to the skin and partially-healed wounds. He rolled on a pair of latex gloves from the kit and pulled up a chair to sit behind him. "Uh, I'm more than willing to help, but you'll have to walk me through this. Triage is your area of expertise. Mine's…a bit more distant from this kind of stuff."

Eliot twisted his neck around to meet Hardison's nervous expression. "You'll do fine. If there's any crud in the cut still clean it out, there's some antiseptic wipes in the first aid supplies. Then some of the ointment, and cover all that with some gauze. "

Hardison ran his eyes over the stuff set out on the table, collecting the materials he'd need in a small pile. Eliot watched him do this. The hacker's slow hesitant movements didn't escape his scrutiny. "I, uh, I know this isn't normally your thing. Are you ok with this? If not, it's ok. I can manage."

Hardison shook his head. "I just said this was different from what I'm used to, not that I wouldn't do it. Just walk me through it."

Eliot nodded gratefully. He spoke clearly, hoping that his own confidence would lend itself to Hardison. He knew what it was like trying something that fell outside his area of expertise. Like acting was for him, he thought, smiling. How many crazy roles had he adopted since signing up with this crew? "Just like I said, make sure it's clean before you dress it. I cleaned it out the best I could in the shower but it's in a pretty awkward spot." He flexed his shoulder, the wound in question on his left shoulder announcing itself as he did so.

Hardison gave a half nod. "Ok, then. You sure this doesn't need stitches? It ain't pretty."

"I'm sure. There's nothing to stitch together, I just lost a chunk of skin."

Hardison began his administrations, carefully picking a few pieces of coal out of the wound and depositing them on the table beside him. He didn't miss Eliot's slight flinch when his fingers first brushed up against his skin. But the hitter recovered his resolve quickly and went rigid.

"How'd you do this again?" Hardison asked.

Eliot was silent for a moment. This wasn't something he was used to sharing with someone, _anyone,_really. The post-mission phases were something he usually did himself. Sitting here at this table and putting himself back together had become something of a ritual for the hitter. It was disorienting to be sitting here so exposed, even in front of Hardison. Yes, the man was his teammate, and as of late, a very good friend. But it still didn't banish the instinct that Eliot had to lock himself away in his room and tend to his injuries in solitude. He breathed deep, calming himself. Hardison had done a lot for him tonight, driving him home and saving him the discomfort he'd suffer from riding in the back of a stranger's car in his current partially-incapacitated state. He owed the man an explanation at the very least. "It happened while I was in the mine looking for the bomb. The man who planted it saw me and we got into a fight. He managed to graze my back with the tip of his pick axe in the scuffle."

Hardison paused for a moment, fingers warm against the skin of Eliot's back. "This wound is from a pick axe?"

Eliot shrugged, instantly regretting the motion as pain flared up the shoulder. He stilled, letting the pain wash over him and dissipate. "Yeah. Not too bad, though, in the scheme of things."

"How is this not bad, man? You're missing several square inches of skin off your back!"

Eliot thought through the litany of injuries he'd seen in his day: knifings, bullet wounds, and a dislocated shoulder came to mind as highlights. Hell, he probably didn't remember half the injuries his body had sustained somewhere along the way. "It's not bad, for me," Eliot finished, refusing to speak any more on the issue. The past was just that, the past. And some parts of his history were best left buried where they lay.

"And the bruising? This whole mess can't be from one mission."

"Like I said, the past few cons have seen a good deal more violence than usual. I got thrown into the river during that car dealership job. That's a lot of it."

"And this one?" Hardison asked, running a light hand over a particularly vivid stripe of bruising at the base of his neck. Eliot shrank back from the touch. Though whether the gesture was from pain or surprise, Hardison wasn't sure, but he withdrew his hand and returned to applying gauze to the wound.

Eliot shook his head and Hardison saw the man's muscles tense angrily. "Parker threw a crowbar at me."

"She did _what_?" Hardison couldn't keep all the shock out of his voice.

"She didn't mean to, I don't think. Damn, that girl has an arm. Sure did hurt though."

"Did she at least apologize?"

"We're talking Parker here. I don't think she even realized she did something wrong."

A frown crossed Hardison's face at that, although Eliot couldn't see from his position facing the wall. The hacker smoothed out a final piece of tape to hold the gauze in place. "That's it, then. I'm done."

Eliot stood up, stretching out his stiff muscles. He paused, locking eyes with Hardison. "Thanks."

Hardison shrugged. "It was nothing," he remarked nonchalantly.

"So are you heading out?" Eliot asked. "I've probably kept you long enough as it is."

"I figured I'd just squat on your couch for the night, if you're ok with it. You said you didn't want me driving your truck. You could just take me back to Nate's for my own car tomorrow sometime." Hardison finished with an exasperated breath. He braced himself for an outright rejection, but Eliot really shouldn't be left alone like this. The man still looked far worse for wear. Eliot's taut posture had begun to collapse in on itself. His head was bobbing forward between sentences and his eyes were half hidden beneath drooping eyelids

Eliot nodded. "Fair enough. There's extra bedding in the linen closet in the hallway. You need anything else?"

"Really?" Hardison caught himself, realizing he'd spoken that out loud. "I mean, uh, I'm good. Go ahead and turn in for the night yourself. You look like you could use the rest."

Eliot gave a terse nod and pushed off from where he'd been supporting part of his weight against the table. Hardison watched him depart and disappear down the hallway before he quickly stripped off the bloody gloves and dropped them into the trashcan, oddly pleased with himself. "You did it, Hardison, the whole thing, all that blood, and you didn't faint."

He placed the lid on the trash can so that he wouldn't have to look at the evidence of what he'd just done. He was a hacker for a reason. It wasn't messy, it wasn't physical, and it certainly wasn't bloody. He'd never dealt well with blood. He flashed a smile as he thought back to when his grandma had arranged for him to shadow a physician for a day, trying to lure Hardison down the path of pursing medical school. He'd fainted when the doctor had given a simple injection. But here and now he'd steeled himself well, and he was proud of that. Proud that he had been able to help out a teammate.

And on that thought, he set about straightening up the kitchen a bit more. He started with putting the medical kit back together and moved on from there. He found the bedding and laid it out on the couch. He kicked off his shoes, letting them fall haphazardly to the floor, and then thought better of bringing his clutter into Eliot's normally orderly environment. The final thing he did before going to bed was to line his shoes up by the door next to Eliot's.

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	4. Chapter 4

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**The Price We Pay**

**Chapter 4**

A loud thudding noise had Hardison snapping his eyes open and rolling off the couch and to his feet, head on the swivel as he tried to determine the source of the sound. He flailed around, feeling for the wall and following that to the light switch near the door. His eyes protested the sudden brightness of everything but he rubbed at them a few times.

And there! The noise again. This time accompanied by a person's voice. It was low at first. He moved toward Eliot's door. It was a quiet sound, a soft cry as if someone had wrangled it in before it could reach its full strength.

"I'M NOT GIVING IT TO YOU!"

Hardison flinched at the sudden outburst that pierced through Eliot's thick door. He knocked, softly at first, then louder when there was no answer. "Eliot, you ok in there?"

No answer. He twisted the door knob to enter, understanding the gravity of what he was pondering doing by walking in on Eliot while the man was unconscious, but he wanted to make sure his friend was ok. The locked door prevented any further action along that avenue.

He put an ear to the door when the sudden outburst faded to an awkward silence. Then he heard softly, "…Please. I _can't _tell you. I don't know! I've told you that three times…" When the voice fell away again he heard the violent tussling of blankets, a form tossing and turning in the throes of terror within.

"ELIOT! Are you ok in there?"

There was a grunt from the other side and then the room went silent again. Hardison saw a faint crack of light beneath the door as the switch was flipped and then the door was quickly wrenched open. The man before him wore a variety of emotions on his face. Bewilderment, at having been woken up so suddenly. Then anger as he realized that he wasn't alone. And lining his every movement was a barely veiled fatigue. Sweat had made the hitter's hair damp.

"Hardison! What do you want?" Eliot growled, scrubbing the exhaustion from his face.

"I, uh. I just wanted to make sure you were ok. It sounded like you were having a nightmare."

Eliot blinked a few times. And although Hardison wouldn't have staked his life on it, he could've sworn that shame had flashed across Eliot's face before he buried that emotion behind a stoic mask. "I don't have nightmares. What time is it anyways?" He asked as he roughly twisted the clock around toward him. His expression darkened as he saw the time. It was going on six in the morning."Did you turn my alarm clock off?" he barked at Hardison.

"Look, dude. You were exhausted, you needed the sleep. I was just trying to help-"

"You want to help? Leave things you don't know anything about _alone. _I have a routine and it works well for me. I don't need you coming around screwing up."

Hardison rubbed the back of his head and dipped his gaze to the ground.

Eliot stood there, as if he expected further explanation. With none forth coming he growled once more and slammed the door.

Hardison stood there for a few moments, trying to piece together what exactly had just transpired. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the shower going again. Apparently he wasn't the only one who wasn't getting any more sleep that night.

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Hardison pulled up Eliot's truck behind his own van and killed the engine. His ears took a moment to recover from the loud grumbling of the diesel engine. By the time he'd left the car behind and was pushing open the door to the bar he was ready to meet up with the team. He'd left Eliot's place soon after regaining his bearings after the hitter had slammed the door on him and made it explicitly clear he wanted to be left alone. Hardison figured Eliot could use some space, in the form of a vacant apartment, when he emerged for breakfast. Hardison had taken the time to swing by his place and shove some of his own possessions and his computer into a backpack before coming over to Nate's place.

The bar was empty so he progressed up the stairs, into the apartment, and headed for the lounge. He had guessed right, the rest of the team was assembled there. Nate looked a bit hung over and was nursing a cup of black coffee. Sophie looked a bit more awake (though not by much) and was nibbling on a piece of toast. A cup of tea sat to her left on the end table. Hardison smiled when he got to matching gazes with Parker. The girl was perched on the back of the couch. He couldn't help but associate the little thief with a cat; Parker was always searching for the highest place she could climb, whether she be indoors or outside.

"Hey Hardison! Did you bring donuts? You promised donuts if we came over here this early."

He smirked and nodded, pulling the box of Dunkin' Donuts out from behind his back and placing it on the coffee table. Parker practically pounced on the container of overly-sugared treats as soon as he backed away from the peace offering he'd brought for insisting they all make it over here.

"Well?" Nate prompted, "What've you found?"

"Found on what?" Hardison asked, a bit confused.

"I had assumed you'd found something on the Italian Woman's job we're working," Nate responded.

"Oh, that. No, I didn't have a chance to work on that much last night."

"Then what was so important that we had to be dragged out of our beds this early?"

Hardison sighed and leaned his weight back against the wall. "I wanted to talk to you guys about Eliot, actually. He's had a bit of a rough time with it lately."

Nate furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about his role in this operation. His job is by far the most physically demanding, and he often is exposed to the most risk. And I think that's something we've taken for granted with this pace we've been working at."

"We've all been working hard," Nate shot back.

"Yeah, but when a con ends for us, it's over. We close the book, go home, and kick up our feet for a few days before we do it all again. What we've forgotten is that for some of us, or at least Eliot, there are aftereffects to be dealt with. Physical injuries to be tended to, for example."

"Eliot hasn't said anything," Sophie responded. "Is there something going on here that we aren't aware of that prompted this lecture?"

Hardison nodded. "I know he hasn't said anything. And that's something I plan on addressing with him as soon as I'm done here. We normally have some downtime between cons. But lately we've had to throw that luxury to the wind to keep up with this Italian Woman's deadline. But what we've forgotten is that Eliot _needs _that time to recover and put himself back together."

"You're talking to us as if we are _choosing_ to run con after con," Nate retorted harshly. "The Italian Woman has a noose hanging over my head, Hardison. She's threatening to send me right back to prison and she's hinted that she wouldn't hesitate to burn you all right along with me if we don't hold up our end of this deal."

Hardison sighed. "Look, I know she's got us backed into a corner. It's not any one person's fault here. I'm just saying that Eliot is not physically capable of holding this pace. I went home with him last night." Hardison gave a nervous chuckle. What had happened last night, what condition Eliot had been in, he never would've dreamt that he would see Eliot that run down. "The man was a mass of bruises and cuts and exhaustion was doting on the man like a best friend. We've ridden him into the ground with this break-neck pace and we just kept on going without giving a single thought to how it might be affecting him."

Nate drained his mug of its last few drops of coffee and deposited it on the table a bit harder than necessary. "What would you have us do?"

"Slow down. Demand more time from the Italian Woman. Or at the very least give Eliot some time to recover. The man's dead on his feet."

"You're talking about the Italian Woman as if she's going to lend us an earnest ear or a shoulder to cry on about how tired we all are. She's a battle hardened criminal-"

Hardison pushed off the wall and stalked forward until he was standing directly in front of Nate. "And Eliot's _human!_ Just like the rest of us. And he's bearing the brunt of the burden for the pace we're running. He's the one paying the price."

Parker leaned forward a bit, her quiet voice contrasting to the heated debate that had developed between the two men. "But Eliot's…Eliot. He's always there to protect us or get me down when my rigging gets jammed. He doesn't get hurt or sick like the rest of us…"

Hardison softened his tone. He was always amazed at how different Parker perceived the world. He knew she had come to trust Eliot, even rely on him when she got cornered or in a jam. But it was time to iron out the kinks that had formed recently and set her straight. "And don't you think we should be there for him too? He is flesh and blood, just like the rest of us, too." He chose his next words carefully, he needed to punctuate a point but he didn't want to deposit blame on Parker for something she was genuinely oblivious to. Hell, up until last night none of them had picked up on the underlying currents that were affecting Eliot to the point where his finely built barriers had started to crack. "When you hit him with a crowbar, it hurts him, Parker. Just like it would do to you or me."

"I didn't do it on purpose," she responded in a hushed tone.

"I know that. He knows that too. But look what we did after that. Did we take a moment to ask if he was ok? Or did we keep on trucking along?"

Parker glanced at him; he could see the gears turning behind her eyes. "Should I steal something for him to make up for it? Maybe a new jacket? That dip in the river ruined his last one."

Hardison smiled at the gesture but shook his head. "Somehow, I don't know if he'd appreciate the idea of you committing a crime for him. But keep thinking on it, you'll come up with something." He swept his gaze around the room at the other two. "And as for the rest of us, we have to start somewhere too. And that means slowing it down and showing Eliot that we care. It means giving him the space and time he needs to heal before we make him run the gamut again."

Nate begrudgingly nodded. Sophie mirrored the gesture a bit more readily. Guilt plagued her expression.

Hardison had to admit that even Nate looked a bit disgusted with the thought of their recent treatment of Eliot. Nate met his gaze. "I'll talk to them; see if I can get an extension on this deadline. I'll try."

Hardison gave a curt nod. "Negotiate first if you can. If you can't, tell them this. Until Eliot's physically and mentally ready to dive back in, I'm not hacking. And he's not in any condition to be hitting. The line has to be drawn somewhere and this is it."

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	5. Chapter 5

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**The Price We Pay**

**Chapter 5**

Hardison returned to the apartment to hear a constant thumping noise through the door. It wasn't consistent, though. There would be a few quick raps in succession and then a second may pass before he heard the noise again.

He opened the door to find Eliot circling around a punching bag in the corner. The man was light on his feet, bouncing his weight from one to the other as he jabbed at the bag, inserting a grunt two between hits.

He didn't seem to notice Hardison, or if he did, he was ignoring the man. Sweat ran down his face in rivets and his hair would bob with each sudden change of direction. He would dance in for a hit and then step back a few paces.

"You expecting the punching bag to grow a pair of arms and come after you? You keep retreating from it."

Eliot ignored the jive, instead arcing around the punching bag so that he was facing the wall away from Hardison. The flurry of punches continued through the interruption.

Hardison's next complaint about being ignored died on his lips. There was a red stain on Eliot's left shoulder. It had already spotted through the white t-shirt the man was wearing at the moment and was beginning to carve a path downward toward the hitter's hip.

"Eliot."

The hitter continued to face away. If anything, he had begun throwing more of his weight against the bag. Whether it was from frustration or some other reason Hardison wasn't sure. The one thing he did know was that this needed to stop now.

"Eliot, you split your shoulder again. Time to take a break, don't you think?"

No response.

Hardison crossed the room quickly, stepping inside the circle of sweat drops that Eliot had left on the ground as he made his circuit around the punching bag. Eliot had to make a choice to keep swinging and potentially hit Hardison or back off.

The man growled and bounded back a step, his restless bouncing slowing and then stopping altogether. "You trying to get yourself hurt, Hardison? You don't _ever _interrupt me when I'm in a training session. That's how you're going to end up with a black eye or worse."

Hardison refused to step away from the bag. It was still swinging from Eliot's efforts and was thumping against his leg. The bag was heavy too; it pushed him a step to the side as it thudded against him again. He grabbed the bag with his hands and stopped its pendulum swing. "Well maybe I wouldn't have had to if you would've just listened instead of ignoring me like a spoiled child."

Eliot wiped the sweat from his face with the towel he'd left draped over the back of the couch. Discarding that, he took a swig of his water before recapping it and setting it on the ground. "Maybe if you stopped treating me like I child I would start treating you like an adult."

Hardison chuffed at that. "That'll come when you start being responsible. Like taking care of your injuries instead of stressing them further. Your shoulder's bleeding again."

He stepped forward to take a closer look at it but Eliot backed away. "It's fine. The bleeding will stop on its own."

"My god! It's like you throw out all of your first aid know-how when it comes to your own well-being, Eliot."

Eliot narrowed his eyes and skirted past Hardison, just beyond his reach where the hacker might've been able to put a hand out and inspect the shoulder. "I'm fine. And as you seem hell-bent against keeping me from my punching bag. I'm going for a run."

Hardison watched the man roughly don his shoes and tie them in double knots. He stood up from his stooped position and turned to face Hardison for a moment. "As for the way you were mocking me backing away from the punching bag, yeah, I do treat the bag like it's an opponent. So that when it's a real person coming after you, maybe I stand a chance of saving your ass." The door slammed and Eliot was gone.

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"Hey!"

Hardison jumped and looked up. Parker was perched on the fire escape two stories above. "Girl, you trying to give me a heart attack? Popping in on me like that with no warning. What are you doing up there? Or a better question, how'd you get up there?" he asked as he tried to puzzle it out. "Never mind. Probably better not to know. Well come on," he motioned. "Get down here. We have work to do."

She shrugged and fifteen seconds later she had shimmied down a drainage pipe, landed on the top of the closed dumpster, and hopped down to stand next to Hardison. "Ok, I'm here."

He nodded and led her around to the front of the apartment complex, through the door, and up to Eliot's place.

"So what are we doing?" Parker asked excitedly.

"You are gonna put those thieving skills of yours to good instead of the mischief you're so fond of." He pointed to the worn punching bag that hung from a bolt that Eliot had installed in the ceiling. "I want you to steal that and take it somewhere."

"Well that's no fun! You already know I'm going to take it. What's the surprise in that?"

"_I _know. It's Eliot's and he won't know, though. We can surprise him if that's going to make it more exciting for you."

She cocked her head. "You want me to steal Eliot's stuff? I thought you said I had to work on making it up to him after the crowbar thing. This is just going to get him mad."

"Look, remember when Nate caught you rappelling with a broken hand and he had Eliot confiscate all of your climbing gear?"

She crinkled up her nose. "Yeah, that wasn't very nice. I didn't like that. I wouldn't want to do that to Eliot."

"Sometimes it's for your own good. Like the rappelling stuff for you. How do you think all of us would've felt if you had gotten even more hurt by jumping off a building when you weren't in peak form like you were at the time?"

"Bad, maybe. But I wouldn't have fallen! I don't ever fall," she argued back.

"Well thank god we didn't have to put that theory to the test by letting you go and dangle from the rooftops with a broken hand. Look, sometimes when you're hurt it's frustrating, not being able to do the things you love to do. Just like you love climbing, Eliot likes hitting things. During the mine job he split his shoulder in a scuffle. He's not giving his body the time it needs to heal. Sometimes it takes another person to step in and say enough is enough."

"Like Nate did to me?" Parker questioned him.

"Yeah. Just like that."

"I still didn't like it. And I still don't think it was necessary."

Hardison nodded. "I know, but sometimes you just gotta give someone else the peace of mind to know that you're safe and recovering instead of putting yourself in further danger when you're already hurt to begin with."

She shook her head. "Fine. But he's not going to be happy."

"You leave that to me. Just go in and do your stealing thing," he said, waving her forward. As she took his cue and walked further into the apartment, he began to withdraw toward the hallway.

"Hey! Where are you going?" she asked.

Hardison grinned. "Well I can't know what you do with it, now can I? That would make me an accessory to the crime."

She snorted. "It was your idea!"

"Look, if he asks about it I'll take the blame. I know you've been itching for a challenge; well here it is. Eliot's probably going to get back from his run soon. You need to have that punching bag out of here by then. Plus, just to sweeten the deal I'll give you a few ideas for how you can make it up to Eliot for the crowbar incident."

"Ok," she said, shrugging. "That sounds like a fair enough deal."

As Hardison withdrew from the apartment he swore he heard her cackle with glee. He smirked. That girl got a rush out of the strangest things. But then, they all did in their own ways. It was what made them such a successful and cohesive team. They all brought their own brand of crazy to the mix.

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	6. Chapter 6

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**The Price We Pay**

**Chapter 6**

When Hardison returned he immediately looked to where the punching bag would've hung. He was pleased to see that the hook hung empty from the ceiling, now stripped of the offending piece of workout equipment. He filed away a mental reminder to ask Parker, first, how she had gotten it out of the apartment (that thing was heavy!) and secondly, where she had taken it.

"I see you notice the conspicuous absence of my punching bag," Eliot jived from where he sat on the ground, stretching. His hair was tied back and held out of his eyes with a bandana.

Must've been a good work out, Hardison thought to himself. The man had damp sweat streaks that darkened his grey muscle shirt along the neck line and back.

"Oh, I didn't even notice," Hardison said, trying to play it off.

The hitter snorted. "I'm sure. It just happened to disappear an hour after you told me to stop using the thing for fear I might contract a deadly injury?"

Hardison shrugged and flopped down on the couch. "Hey, don't be blaming me for this. You think I could even lift that thing? Hacking doesn't lend itself to a whole lot of muscle development." As if to highlight the point, he attempted to flex his arm muscles and strike a pose.

Eliot chuckled, relenting a little. "I don't know what muscles you're talking about. You got sticks for limbs, man."

"Hey, now! No need to be mean about it!"

Eliot cracked his back and sat up straight from his vantage point on the ground. "No harm in telling the truth." He swiped his water bottle off the ground and climbed up to sit in the chair across from Hardison. "So what's the game plan here? I noticed you brought some of your stuff back," he said, nodding to Hardison's backpack next to the chair. "You planning on movin' in or something?"

"Of course not!" Hardison shot back defensively. He paused for a moment and softened his tone. "I just, you know, you shouldn't be alone in the condition you're in."

"What condition?"

Hardison sighed. "Are we really going to play this game, again? Need I remind you of the bruising you got decorating your torso? Or the _pick axe_ wound on your back? You aren't the poster boy of perfect health at the moment."

"I ain't an invalid either," Eliot retorted.

"I know you want to do this yourself. And I can respect the sentiment. But at the same time, you need to realize when you need some assistance. And you need to ask for it. Or at the very least, let one of us know that something's up and that you could use some time to recuperate."

"And that someone would be you?" Eliot asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It could be. Or someone else. If you don't want me here then pick someone else on the team. But you're in no condition to be gearing up for another con. It doesn't hurt to just have someone around to take care of the menial stuff so that you can let yourself take a break. Hell, you've done that and more when it's one of us who's down for the count."

"That's different…You guys aren't used to this. You aren't expected to do it alone."

"Used to what?"

Eliot shrugged. "Getting hurt. That's not you guys' line of work. You hack and Sophie acts and Nate plans and Parker steals things. And it's my job to make sure that you _don't_ end up in someone's line of fire."

"And it's ok for you to put yourself there instead? Or worse yet, to not even take the time to take care of yourself proper after the fact?"

"Yes," Eliot responded solemnly.

"God, Eliot! You just sit there and talk like it's fair for you to be abusing yourself like this. Did you even take the time to think that maybe we would want to know that our friend was hurting? I mean, what is it supposed to say when you didn't even trust us enough to come to us with this?" Hardison was breathing hard by this point. He was on his feet too, pacing the room without even remembering having moved to do that. Nervous habit.

"Look…it's not like that. I _do_ trust you guys. More than I've trusted anyone in a long time. But I have a right to keep some things private. What good does it do to make everyone else worry? I have it under control. I have for years."

Hardison shook his head. "Man, who put this warped idea of a hero's complex into your head? It is not your place, or your right, to just sacrifice yourself for the rest of us. You think any of the team would be happy to step in here and see the evidence of the beatings you've taken and concealed just to 'save us the discomfort' of seeing you hurt?"

Eliot shrugged. "It doesn't matter what you want. It's my choice."

"And that's what I'm trying to tell you. It's _not. _You want to know what I felt seeing you hopped up on pain meds, bleeding, and being absolutely silent and resolute on the topic?"

"Hardison-"

"No Eliot, you let me finish. I felt _shame. _Shame that I would call you a close friend and had neglected to even pay enough attention to look for the signs that you were suffering from the pace we've kept with these cons."

Eliot stared at his feet. He spoke quietly, quiet enough that Hardison stilled his stomping across the floor to hear his words. "I've always been this way."

"And therein lies the root of the problem, Eliot," Hardison spoke compassionately, trying to make Eliot _see_. "I mean, I know that you didn't have the best childhood and all, but that doesn't mean you need to bottle everything up until something gives."

Eliot snapped his gaze upward. "What makes you question my childhood?"

Hardison fumbled for a second, caught off-guard by the sudden switch in directions of the conversation. "I mean, I just always assumed. You're like Parker, with the kids, you know. You're gentle with them and they like you. I know she does it to compensate for the kind treatment she was always denied."

The hitter furrowed his brow. "If you're suggesting what I think you are, you're wrong. My parents didn't neglect me or lock me in a closet or beat me. I had a good family."

Hardison hunched forward a bit, suddenly embarrassed by the faulty logic he'd utilized. It wasn't often someone caught him making this big of a mistaken assumption. "I'm sorry, man. I never meant to speak poorly of your folks."

Eliot shrugged it off. "I mean, no one has a perfect family life. My dad was in the military. It was his example that led me to enlist when I was old enough. My mom did right by us, though. She worked hard and raised us when he was away and we got by."

"Was this your father's idea, then? This 'duty over everything else' routine you're favoring? Even over your own well-being?"

Eliot chewed on that thought for a moment before constructing a response. "You're looking to overturn a single rock and find the answer to everything that makes me tick. People aren't like that, Hardison. Maybe computers are, but not people. We're the sum of everything we do and see and experience."

"Well, what else is there, then? Huh? Something instilled in you this warped idea that it's not ok to share your emotions, your pain, your hurts, with the people who care about you," Hardison said as he dropped back onto the couch, a bit calmer now. What had started as a heated argument was cooling into a level-headed debate. Maybe they'd make some headway yet.

"It's not a 'warped' notion. It's honor, Hardison. Willy taught me that."

"The horse trainer we helped a year or two back with the crooked investor?"

Eliot nodded. "That man was the sort of person you and I will try to be all our lives and never quite live up to the example. I was a scraggly little kid way back in the day. And every day I'd stop by the barn on the way home from school. He'd shoo me away most of the time. He'd tell me to get my butt on home to help my mom with chores and do my homework. But he warmed up to me in time and started teaching me how to work with the horses."

Hardison nodded. "From what I saw of the man, he was good at what he does. He treats his horses fair."

"That isn't the half of it. He had a family too. And despite the nights where he'd be up in his little office in the barn loft trying to figure out where he'd wring out a few more bucks to buy some feed, despite the times he'd steady himself against a stall door when his arthritis flared up, he never inflicted that on his family."

"Inflicted what?"

"The worry over the money or his body starting to show its age. He was the sort of man who could divide up his life and leave the bad parts at the door. So that when he went home, that negative stuff didn't tarnish his family life. That's what it means to be honorable."

"And you don't think his family had a right to choose, huh? You don't think they would've wanted to be there for him?"

Eliot shrugged. "He did the noble thing. He never burdened them to make that decision."

Hardison bit his lip. "You just don't get it, man. It's not a burden to share your pain or your suffering with others. You're willing to do that for us day in and day out. You were there to help Parker with her physical therapy or you'd take Sophie some soup when she got the flu. And yet, for some reason, you don't see that you yourself are entitled to the same thing. You don't think that Parker and Sophie and Nate and I would _want _to be there to help you?"

"You guys can want whatever you'd like. It doesn't mean you're automatically entitled to it. And it doesn't mean that I can be expected to cede my right to do what I think is best."

"You're telling me that it wasn't maybe even a little bit convenient having some help around here the last day or so? I mean, put aside your desire to do this all by your lonesome and think about the facts and what you're actually capable of doing. How would you have dressed that back wound of yours all alone?"

Eliot frowned at the thought. It would've been damn near impossible. He'd have probably just left it open to the air and hope it didn't get infected. "I would've managed. And it's not like I don't tell you guys anything. If it _were _ever serious I'd let you guys know."

"What about the nightmares, huh? Those don't seem like a small thing."

Eliot averted his gaze again, picking a spot on the wall that had suddenly become very interesting. "They don't happen much."

"On our last job, when we were sharing a room, you hardly even showed your face in there at night. Is this why, your nightmares? I mean, I get that it's personal and all. But it's nothing to be ashamed of. We all have skeletons in our closets."

Eliot swept his eyes back toward Hardison and leveled him a stern stare. In actuality, he'd slept most of those nights in their car. Well out of earshot of anyone who might witness the screaming that often accompanied the short periods of sleep his body demanded to keep functioning. "You want to pick apart my childhood, that's fine, Hardison. But I don't have a skeleton in the closet. It'd take a mass grave to encompass all I've seen." He paused, shuddering for a moment as his thoughts fled a continent away to what had passed in Croatia. "I'm not an open book, and some hurts aren't meant to be shared."

Hardison nodded. He had pushed too far, too fast. Time to pull out a bit and let Eliot have his space. Last thing he wanted was for Eliot to feel like he was cornered. This was something he had to come around to of his own volition. Eliot wasn't the kind of man you strong armed into doing anything. "Ok, fair enough." He stood up, then, cracking his back before walking toward the door.

"Where you going?"

Hardison shrugged. "Out for awhile."

"Oh, ok," Eliot responded a bit slowly. The conversation had apparently come to a very abrupt stop.

The door opened and shut and then Eliot was left alone in his apartment. It was silent. Eerily quiet. He stood up and started to make a slow circuit around his home looking for something to do. There should be plenty to do, how many tasks had he neglected to do with the current pace of things?

He went to empty the trash first. He pulled off the lid and prepared himself for a foul smell, that thing had the remains of several partially-eaten meals buried in its depths. Instead he found it clean, gone was the evidence of the fast food he'd subjected himself to or the bloody bandages left over from the last con or two. He straightened himself up and took the time to run his eyes over the room. He paused a few times, once at the now-organized first aid kit. Hardison had left out a roll of bandages for him and the Vicodin was balanced near the edge of the table in case Eliot's pain flared up.

His path wound him through the living room next. It wasn't any one large thing that had been moved, just little things here and there. His coat was now hanging on the rack by the door instead of draped haphazardly over the back of the couch. His DVD's had found their way back to his shelf. No, it wasn't any one huge change that Hardison's presence had brought. But it was all starting to add up to a clearer picture.

He sighed. A trip to the kitchen found him with an ice pack in hand. With that, he retired to the couch where he sank into the well-worn cushions. He flipped on the TV to watch the Mixed Martial Arts competition he'd recorded the previous night.

The bouts wore on. There wasn't any one amazing fight, but all of the fighters were of decent caliber, something that was pretty rare for a full ticket. Most of the time a few fighters made it into the ring before they were ready for the big time and it showed when they were left lying unconscious on the mat. By the time the program finished his ice pack was little more than a bag of water. Eliot threw a glance at the clock on the wall. It was a little past seven in the evening.

Hardison still hadn't come back. Maybe he wasn't coming back, then. Eliot was ok with that, wasn't he? He'd been clamoring for some alone time, some quiet time to recoup and reflect and just do things the way he normally did.

He shook his head at that thought. This wasn't how it normally went. Normally he'd be running around doing twenty different things, juggling his own medical care with ordering in food or repairing gear or conducting recon and planning for the next con. But all of a sudden Hardison had swooped in and taken all that away from him. Taken away his chores and his tending to himself and even Nate hadn't called demanding he make a trip back to the bar for their next briefing. It was a bit disorienting and surreal to go from a full on dead sprint to a complete stand still so rapidly. All of a sudden Eliot didn't have enough to do. His muscles weren't screaming from too much exertion over much too extended a time period. His apartment was clean. And that had all been made possible by having another person around to help out, even just a little.

Eliot looked toward the door, almost willing it to open and for a person to walk through. Hardison should've been back by now, right? A scan of the room found that Hardison's backpack was gone. As was his computer from where it'd been sitting on the end table earlier. Shit. Maybe he wasn't coming back… but that didn't make sense. If he had left he'd have taken Eliot's truck again. And if Eliot had to track the man half way across the city to recover his vehicle someone was going to pay. But a quick glimpse out the window found his truck sitting in its familiar spot beneath the fire escape in the alley.

He _needed _something to do then. The desire for peace and quiet was replaced with anxious energy demanding for an outlet. The silence in the apartment left a void that demanded to be filled. He'd always known Hardison talked a lot. The man loved to jabber up a storm. Eliot hadn't realized just how much color it had brought to his normally drab apartment life, however, until it was all of a sudden gone. So he made a trip to the kitchen and flipped on the radio to a station that sounded more like a band of cackling hyenas than anything enjoyable. The stuff bands were coming out with these days was something else. But anything, even this, was preferable to the deafening silence.

He found the cook book that Parker had bought him for Christmas that year and pulled it down off the shelf, blowing the dust off it as he went. The current pace of things hadn't left him much time to experiment with new recipes. But Hardison had gifted him with that much: time, and lots of it. And he'd be damned if he let it waste away. Flipping through a few chapters found one promising Asian-inspired recipe. It didn't hurt that he already had most of the spices it called for and the fish market was right around the corner so picking up some fresh cod shouldn't be difficult. He nodded, grabbed his jacket, and went out to buy the other supplies he'd need.

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	7. Chapter 7

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**The Price We Pay**

**Chapter 7**

Eliot set the stove to a low simmer, just enough to keep the food warm. He went about setting the table for two with his real set of plates and cutlery. It was even a matching set. His normally mismatched hodge-podge of a chipped mug and a cheap plate had been retired to the back of one of the cupboards for the evening. He pulled up the shades on his window to check for any approaching figures on the street for the second time in twice as many minutes. Disappointment fell across his face. He sighed, shook his head, and took a seat at the table. Hardison wasn't coming. Eliot had fought dirty, just as he was always willing to do, to get what he wanted. And he had wanted to be alone. And now he was, so why was the notion so alarming all of a sudden?

Could a little more than a day's worth of experiences really change his outlook that much? Eliot snorted to himself. Of course it could. And for once Eliot didn't want to be sitting here at this table alone.

And then there was a sound of a key jingling in the lock. He listened for another moment just to make sure that he wasn't imagining things into existence simply to fulfill his latest desires. But the door opened. He was on his feet and down the hallway before he'd even realized he was moving.

A familiar face greeted him with a grin. "Hey. What's up?"

Eliot closed his eyes for a moment to balance his emotions and calm himself. Had to be cool, damn it. He wasn't going to blow this now. "Oh, uh, nothing much. I made dinner, if you're hungry."

Hardison shrugged. "Sounds good to me. I was working at that little bakery down the road all day. And damn, the smells just had my mouth watering!"

"You already eat? It's ok if you did…I know it's pretty late for dinner," Eliot said quietly.

"Oh, no. I was just saying, for the next briefing I'm going to pick up some of their stuff." Hardison threw his bag on the couch, rubbed his hands together and walked past Eliot and into the kitchen like this were his own home. "So what are we having? Whatever it is, it smells absolutely delicious."

"It's fish, I got the recipe out of that recipe book Parker gave me for Christmas."

Hardison nodded. "So this is a new recipe for you?" he asked as he pulled out a chair from the table and dropped himself into it.

Eliot turned off the stove and laid out the food on the table before sitting down himself and tossing his oven mitts onto the counter. "Yeah. I think it came out ok, though."

They sat there for a few odd moments there. Eliot had been taught his manners as a child, his mother had seen to that. The others guys constantly mocked him for his gestures. Sophie called him a regular southern gentleman when he held the door for her, a small smirk on her face. Despite the smirk, however, for her and Parker, the gazes weren't mocking, not really. There was a shocking sense of surprise and awe there, as if he were the last bastion of chivalry in a world where manners had become outdated. And of the things his mother had taught him, one of the first lessons had been that guests served themselves first.

"Oh, uh, you can go ahead and serve yourself."

Hardison cocked his head as if Eliot was speaking a foreign language. Maybe Hardison hadn't been raised with the same lessons he'd had. The hacker shrugged. "Fine by me." He dished himself a fillet of fish from the pan and a full two scoops of the fresh vegetables that Eliot had cooked as a side. Most of the hacker's plate disappeared beneath a pile of food.

After Hardison served himself Eliot began to dish his own up. "So how was your day?"

"It was fine. I worked a bit on the Italian Woman's job."

Eliot sat up a bit straighter at that. "Has Nate picked a new target for us to go after toward that ultimate goal?"

"No. I told him I was taking some time off and suggested the rest of the team do the same. I think everyone was beginning to show a little weariness with everything. And when people get tired they get sloppy and stupid and they make mistakes. Those don't bode too well in our line of work."

Eliot knew that Hardison was lying to him then. The rest of the team wasn't starting to show it. He was. And that had apparently been enough of a reason for Hardison to go and demand some time off. And demand he had, Eliot was sure of that. Nate wasn't the type to just drop everything for a quick vacation when there was work to be done, and if Hardison had been anything but firm, Nate wouldn't have given in. Eliot knew when to pick his battles, though, and he chose to let that one go. He deposited a forkful of food into his mouth and nodded. After he swallowed he continued. "How's the food?"

"Very good."

"So you're definition of a vacation includes spending an entire day doing research for a con?"

"I spent the whole day sitting in chair. How strenuous do you consider that to be?" Hardison rebutted.

How strenuous indeed, Eliot thought. Hardison liked to joke about how sugar ran in his veins instead of blood with the amount of pop and junk food he consumed. Eliot had seen Hardison's eyes red in the late hours of the night. They had taken on a haunting glow as they reflected the light of the computer screen in the otherwise dark room. The man would reach a shaky hand for another caffeinated beverage, would chug a bit, and then continue waging his technological warfare without even glancing away from the screen. Hardison's job didn't come without its own sacrifice.

"It's still not taking time off."

Hardison's voice took an edge then. "And you're one to talk?" When Eliot failed to respond Hardison returned to his food.

"So you find anything?" Eliot asked.

"Not much," Hardison replied nonchalantly.

"Anything remarkable happen today, then?" Eliot prodded further. He wasn't good at this small talk stuff. He normally relied on Hardison to come up with the conversation topics and Eliot would work to keep up with the flurry of words that would slide off the man's tongue. All of a sudden Hardison was dumping that responsibility into Eliot's lap and the hitter was fumbling badly.

"Nope. Just a quiet day at the bakery."

Eliot waited for his friend to ask about his day. When the awkward silence continued Eliot started in anyways, unprompted. "My day was pretty quiet too. I just watched some TV and cooked and stuff."

"Good. That's good," Hardison responded in a neutral tone, even as his eyes remained pointedly focused on the food in front of him.

Eliot growled low under his breath. What did the man want from him? He was playing some sort of game, obviously, and Eliot hadn't quite caught on. A few more questions found Hardison delivering equally bland answers.

And as Eliot watched the man, it finally clicked. He fell silent himself, then, as he pondered his choices then. The set-up was one that Willy had taught Eliot as a boy. And it was a tactic that Eliot himself had used on more than a few stubborn foals in his day. When you were first teaching a horse, often times a frisky foal wanted nothing of wearing a halter or being led about on the end of a rope. There were so many more interesting things to do like rolling in the dirt or searching for grass along the fence line where perhaps other horses hadn't been smart enough to look and nibble it down to near nothing. You took the foal into the ring; it would be just the young horse and the horse trainer. You would try to halter the horse for the first time, and more often than not it'd throw up its head, balk, and prance off across the ring with its tail high in the air. And then the trainer would turn his back to the horse and face the fence line for a time. It could take awhile. The foal had to satisfy all his curiosities, but eventually it came down to the man and the horse. The horse was afraid, at first. It was asking a lot, to trust the trainer enough to let him lead. It was asking the horse to cede the unbridled life it'd led up till then. But almost always_,_ without fail, the foal would wander up to the trainer, ears pricked anxiously for the slightest sound that would indicate a threat. But the trainer stood there and waited for the horse to approach on its own time, to snuff at his sleeves and investigate. And when the horse finally stilled its movements, then, and only then, was it time to turn around and gently brush the nose of the foal and whisper encouragement as you slid the halter over its head for the first time.

Hardison was doing that right now. The hacker had given Eliot every reason to trust him. He'd come into his home and assisted him in every way he could. He'd taken the brunt of Eliot's harsh words and rebukes and retreats from every effort Hardison made to reach out to him. Like that frisky colt, Eliot had retreated to his bedroom and slammed the door or he'd gone at the punching bag or he'd taken that frustration out as he sprinted along the blocks and blocks of cityscape that made up the heart of Boston. Hardison hadn't demanded anything from him. He'd waited patiently, waiting for Eliot to come through on his own time.

Hardison was drawing a line, now, though. Eliot could remain barred up in the prison he'd created for himself to contain the tumult of emotion that ran beneath his façade every moment of every day, or he could step over that line and instill trust in someone else as he never had before.

Almost always a colt would come up the trainer and investigate. It would fuss and buck around the ring for awhile, but eventually it would come up and trust. In all the time that Willy had mentored Eliot, only one foal had failed this test. Willy had stood there at the fence line looking out on the rest of his farm and his herd for an entire afternoon and well into the evening after the sun had dipped behind the horizon. He'd turned around finally, shaking his head sadly. "There are some horses you never can train, Eliot. Not many, but a handful. This guy is one of those."

And Eliot had asked what was to be done with a horse like that.

"You can't trust a horse that can't trust a trainer. It's a two way street. And when one doesn't give, it's a broken dynamic. Doomed to fail," Willy had responded mournfully as he climbed the hill.

The colt had been gone when Eliot had returned the next day. He'd never worked up the gall to ask Willy what had happened to it.

Eliot put down his fork and pushed his plate away. Hardison kept eating, ignoring the gesture.

The hitter took a shuddering breath. He was on a precipice and had to dive to one way or the other. Bolt or bend to another's will, to Hardison's plea that Eliot let down his walls.

"I was angry, you know, after that school reunion a month or so back."

Hardison stopped eating and finally looked up from the food.

Eliot continued, not quite meeting Hardison's gaze. "You guys were all in there slow dancing with one another and I was limping out of the building having just fought with some armed thugs. I was sore and tired as ever and you guys were slow dancing like you didn't have a care in the world. Like you didn't care about me. And yes, I was angry. But it's just the way things are, isn't it? And I did think to myself, 'It shouldn't be like this, but it is.' And I just went home and started piecing myself back together."

And finally, Hardison abandoned his icy demeanor and began speaking in earnest, meeting Eliot halfway. "It _doesn't_ have to be that way, Eliot. And changing that aspect of the team dynamic, it has to come from you. We- I-want to help. But I can't read your mind. And I certainly can't force you to do something that you yourself don't want."

Eliot grimaced. "What do you want from me out of this?"

Hardison put down his own fork, focusing his full attention on Eliot. "What do _you_ want, Eliot? You just said that you sometimes wished things were different. That true?"

Eliot gave a slow half nod. Not quite sure of the answer himself. He battled with that sentiment every day. It fluctuated. When he saw the rest of the team caring for one another, helping one another, sometimes he wanted that for himself too. And other times he…he just wanted to bury all that in a little ball in the furthest depths of his mind where no one would ever discover the pain or the hurt. "Sometimes," he muttered softly, "Sometimes I wish it were different."

Hardison nodded. He waited for Eliot to meet his eyes before speaking again; pouring all of the emotions that had been boiling within him all day into his words. "You're not a second-rate member of this team, Eliot. You're not some mule to carry all of us through all the dangers we put ourselves in at risk and harm to yourself. You understand that, right? We all know this job is dangerous and we all willingly and consciously choose to walk into each and every con together."

"I'm more capable of protecting you-"

"No, Eliot. You're not. Plain and simple. You seem to forget that we all survived the time before our little band of criminals came into existence. All of us survived that. We may not have the combat prowess that you have, but we have street smarts."

Eliot mulled over that for a moment. Hardison was partially right on that. He didn't really think much of what happened before they were a team. Eliot respected that each of them had their own pasts and histories that they had a right to keep private if they chose to. Really, for him, the time that mattered was the time after they had all stepped into the ring together to fight against the corruption in the world. And as they did that, he'd assumed the role he knew best. That of the protector, bearing the brunt of the onslaught to protect the ones he'd come to love. He spoke the next words quiet enough that Hardison leaned forward to listen more carefully. "I don't want to see you guys get hurt."

"That's a two way street, Eliot. We don't want to see you constantly hurting. That's too high a price to pay."

Eliot breathed in and out several times. That was what the argument came down to. He viewed it as a fair bargain. His pain for the peace of mind that they would walk off safely after the latest con. Hardison was rejecting that dynamic. Eliot had lived and operated by this creed for his entire life. It was a revolving cycle that he never really had the escaped from. Hardison was holding the door open for him, offering him an out to abandon everything he'd ever believed in. Offering him the chance to break the circle. He didn't know what waited on the other side. No, that was a lie. He knew what laid out there, he'd seen the sentiment reflected enough between the gazes of his teammates, a look of devotion and care that ran so deep he often had to stop and wonder just how much his life had changed in these last few years, just how close he had allowed himself to grow to these remarkable individuals. Just how weak he had let his defenses fall.

And there was Hardison, sitting across from him as patient as ever with admiration reflected in his eyes practically screaming to be seen, to be realized, to be accepted, by Eliot. It was burning a hole through Eliot's defenses, burning a hole through which Eliot could climb out of the prison he'd buried his emotions and pain within. It had always been for the sake of the team. Or so he'd thought. Here Hardison was burying that philosophy in a grave so deep that Eliot knew if he let it go of it Hardison would never let him resurrect it.

Hardison would wait patiently for Eliot to shed the layers of defenses he'd built up between himself and others. But he knew without asking, just innately _knew,_that Hardison would throw himself between any attempts Eliot made to retreat back to that place once he'd ventured out beyond it. No, if he gave this up, if he gave himself over, there was no going back. He'd be out in the open, exposing the soft, fragile bits of himself to another. And that took a sort of faith that Eliot didn't know that he possessed.

All of a sudden he was afraid, afraid to give all of himself over to another person. That emotional prison seemed more like a safe haven, all of sudden. It was familiar; Hardison was trying to draw him into a world that was totally foreign.

He opened his mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come out. The words were swallowed in his throat. He steeled himself and forced the words out, softly, without much weight or confidence behind them. But he spoke them all the same. "I'll try, Hardison. I'll try. That's the best I can give you."

Hardison's stern gaze finally cracked and a breathless smile emerged, and it swept Eliot away. "That's all I ask."

"I'm tired," Eliot admitted.

The progress they'd made was a victory enough for tonight.

"Go to bed. I'll clean up here," Hardison said.

For a moment, while Eliot didn't respond, Hardison worried that Eliot might fall back into his familiar rut and reject the offer. The man hardly ever accepted help from anyone with anything. But the hitter surprised him, not for the first time that night. Hardison had kept his bag packed by the door. And if Eliot had refused to let down his walls even an inch, Hardison had been prepared to walk out of here tonight and be done. But Eliot had given himself over, just now, and he didn't retreat backwards. Like the man he was, he stood and faced the uncertain with an unwavering resolve.

"Thanks," Eliot responded. And with that he rose from his chair and retreated toward his room. He paused at the doorway. "Oh, Hardison, I expect my punching bag to be back in its rightful place tomorrow. I know you had nothing to do with it and all, but I'm just saying. If you happen to have any information on its whereabouts, you might suggest to said person that they return what's not rightfully theirs."

Hardison smirked, he felt the heat rise into his cheeks as he blushed and the glint in Eliot's eye let Hardison know he'd been found out. "Um, I'll see what I can manage."

Eliot nodded and disappeared completely from view as he stepped into his room. Hardison waited to hear the slam of the door and the click of the lock. But the sound didn't come, prompting him to look upward from where he was gathering his dishes on the table.

The door hung completely open.

He finished cleaning up the dishes and returning the kitchen to the paradigm of perfect order that Eliot commanded of every corner of his home. He laid out his bedding on the couch and flicked out the lights and fell asleep. And when a terror-stricken cry pierced the night, he'd risen from his bed without a second thought. There had been a moment of hesitation at the doorway, some unseen barrier pinned him there. That frozen moment melted, then, and he straightened his back and walked into the bedroom.

They had been teammates and friends before that night. But as Hardison stepped into the bedroom he knew that phase of their life was ending and something completely new was being founded on the trust that two men were willing to instill in one another. He reached down, whispering Eliot's name softly in his ear, dragging Eliot from the depths of the sorrowful sea that the man had been treading in all his life.

Eliot's eyes opened as he surfaced for the first time after an eternity of solitude. The terror faded as he saw the calmness and serenity in Hardison's eyes. It was the rock in a storm and he clung to it with every ounce of strength he possessed. His ragged breaths evened out. Hardison smiled down at him with a gaze that promised a future Eliot wasn't sure he was good enough a man to deserve. He became aware of the hand that Hardison had gently placed on the hitter's sweaty shoulder to ground him.

And for once, Eliot forsook the guilt and doubt that clung to his every thought. Damn his past and the rightness or wrongness of the opportunity that he'd been given. He seized Hardison's hand in his own and didn't let go.

-THE END-

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